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“Now those men who’ve had an abortion, keep your hands up. Those who haven’t, put your hands down.”
Chris can hardly believe what he’s hearing. It’s as if she’s speaking directly to him.
“Do I see one amazing man out there?” Kate asks, shading her eyes. “The XY chromosome version of the Virgin Mary?”
Chris realizes his hand is still up. He lowers it to good-natured laughter, which sounds to him like jeers. He joins in because it’s protective coloration, but his mind is yammering and hammering, as he sometimes hammers his fists against the walls of the cheap motel rooms where he stays, which are all he deserves, hammering until someone shouts, “Shut up, goddammit, we’re trying to sleep here!”
Go ahead, he thinks now.Laugh at me. Laugh your fool heads off. Let’s see how much you laugh when I send your queen bitch to hell.
“Enough kidding around,” Kate’s saying. “Men don’t have abortions, we all know that, but who makes thelawsin Iowa?”
And with that, she’s off.
8
Izzy works late that night, catching up on her other cases. At times like this, when most of the other carrels are empty and even Lew Warwick’s office is dark, she thinks that maybe she should take Holly up on her offer to join Finders Keepers. There would still be paperwork, but she might not have to endure dog-and-pony shows like this afternoon’s press conference and the odious George Pill.
Her cell phone rings. The screen says911.
“Jaynes.”
“Izzy, this is Patti downstairs. I just got a call from someone who says he’s your serial. He wanted your extension if you were here. I gave—”
Izzy’s desk phone lights up.
“Trace it, trace it,” she tells Patti, and ends the call. She picks up her landline. “Hello, this is Detective Jaynes. To whom am I speaking?”
When Izzy was in her first year as a detective, Bill Hodges told her she’d be amazed how often that question can surprise a name out of someone.
Not this time.
“Bill Wilson.” The name has been withheld from the press. “Give me your cell number, Detective Jaynes. I want to send you a picture.”
“What kind of a—”
“I know how you people play for time. If you want the picture, give me your number. If you don’t, I’ll hang up and send it to Buckeye Brandon.”
Her caller is an adult male with no accent, at least that she can pick up. A linguistic expert who listens to the tape may be able to hear one. Izzy gives him her number. Next time he calls—if there is a next time—she’ll record it.
“Thank you. I’m sending the picture because I want you to see the name of another person who aided and abetted in the killing of Alan Duffrey. Goodbye.”
And just like that, he’s gone, but seconds later her phone bings with a text. She opens it and sees a woman’s hand in extreme close-up. Everything in the background is gray. Possibly concrete. A sidewalk, maybe?
In the woman’s hand, printed in block letters, is the name Corinna Ashford. In the Alan Duffrey trial, she was Juror 7.
9
Trig ends the call on the burner he’s used (there are three more in the tool-and-spare compartment of his Toyota). He doesn’t bother to pull the SIM card. Let them trace the location if they can. He’s in theparking lot of the Mingo Auditorium, where this Friday night’s event is a custom car show with a country group called the Ruff Ryders as an added attraction. The main lot is full of cars, many bearing stickers like THINK TWICE BECAUSE I WON’T and GIRLS LIKE GUNS TOO.
Trig takes the phone to a nearby trash barrel, wipes it down, drops it in, goes back to his car, drives away. They might or might not find the phone (the Saturday morning trash haulers may take it away). Even if they don’t, they can use the International Mobile Equipment Identity—the phone’s fingerprint—to trace the text he sent Jaynes to the phone’s point of purchase, which happened to be a convenience store in Wheeling, West Virginia. Bought for cash over two months ago. If security footage from that long ago still exists—doubtful—it will show a Caucasian male of medium height wearing a Denver Broncos gimme cap and Foster Grant sunglasses.
Trig thinks he’s got the situation covered but knows he may have forgotten something. The way he forgot the hitchhiker’s sign, for instance. Which is still in the trunk. He may be a serial killer (he has come a long way toward accepting the appellation, if not welcoming it), but he doesnothave a God complex. If he keeps going—and he intends to—they will catch him eventually.
Talking to the 911 operator, then to Jaynes, was risky. Sending the picture to Jaynes was even riskier, but he can’t bear to let the druggie girl go to waste. That would be murder for the sake of murder, and he hopes he hasn’t sunk to that level. They must know she was murdered in the name of Corinna Ashford.Ashfordmust know.
He could have told Jaynes the location, but then the Holman would become a crime scene, and he wants to save it for what he’s now thinking of as the grand finale. Of course the druggie girl’s body may be found anyway, he knows that. It depends partly on whether any maintenance people have reason to visit the Holman Rink over the next week or so. He doesn’t think they will. The building is condemned, after all. But city workers aren’t the only reason the body might be found. Just because few if any drug users have gained access to the building so far doesn’t mean they won’t get in at some future point. Surely Trig isn’t the only person who’s wise to the Plumber’s Code trick. For allhe knows, users have already been in the rink, and just picked up after themselves—who says all druggies are slobs? It’s possible a fiend might not report the body, but it’s more likely he or she would make an anonymous call (probably after searching the corpse for drugs or money).
Another possibility: Depending on how hot the following week is, someone may smell decomp and send one of the park workers to investigate. That would be a shame because he wants to use the rink again. If the body is discovered, he’ll have to revise his thinking. As the wise men of the ages have all agreed, shit happens.